


Luxury

by Baneberry



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Foot Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-03-29 05:01:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13919916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baneberry/pseuds/Baneberry
Summary: “Use your mouth, your fingers, your unit, I’m not picky,” Ratchet interrupted again, waving a hand. “But I’m off the clock. Therefore, I’m not working.”





	Luxury

**Author's Note:**

> A fic response to [this post](http://big-fucken-robot-cocks.tumblr.com/post/171408839185/lazy-bottompillow-princess-ratchet-discuss) about Ratchet basically being a "lazy bottom". I chose Swerve because OP seemed to really like him.

“Yanno, doc… Gotta admit. I figured you’d didn’t like me-–like, at all, so, uh… You invitin’ me to your suite kiiinda makes me wonder if I might have dipped into my own supply a bit too-–”

“It’s interfacing,” Ratchet interjected, locking his door. He crossed the room, stretching and working out kinks and knots in his actuators. “Loving a person-–liking them, even-–has nothing to do with it.” He grunted, slamming the heel of his palm into one stubborn hip joint.

“Oh.” Swerve’s visor flickered. “True.”

Ratchet stopped, looking back at Swerve. He exvented. “I don’t hate you. I don’t even dislike you, Swerve,” he reassured. Swerve’s head perked up with surprise. “It might _seem_ like I can’t stand your company, but you’d be surprised how often I act this way to… well, most everyone.”

“A doctor who doesn’t like to socialize,” Swerve smirked, waving index fingers at Ratchet, “bet you got some great bedside manners.”

Ratchet snorted, one corner of his mouth turning upright into a smile. Swerve felt his spark skip. He’d rarely seen the CMO smile; he always looked tired, or grumpy, or both.

Ratchet moved to his slab, adjusting some of the mesh and tarp pillows. “Anyway, I know you’ve been very eager,” he said, lying out on the slab.

Swerve twitched. “W-Whatta mean?”

“Your vitals. I scanned them. Your unit’s been fully pressurized for the past fifteen minutes.” Ratchet, with his deadpan face, pointed at Swerve’s codpiece.

Swerve stepped back. “Wh–-Well! You know! It happens! I mean… Well, you know! It just happ-–” He nearly choked on his own tongue as Ratchet, stretched comfortably out on his back on berth and pillows, flopped his legs open, panels parting and putting his full interface array on display. His unit was half-mast, but lubricant was already trickling from his channel.

“Looks like I’m not the only one,” Swerve smirked, cheeks warm.

“I’ve been needing to decompress for a while now,” Ratchet scowled. He exvented, relaxing, optics lidded and expression simple and blank. “Anyway,” he said, “let’s get this started.”

Swerve’s blue visor tinted violet. “How would… How do you wanna, yanno… Do. This?”

“Do you need me to tell you how interfacing works?”

“No! I just-–”

“Use your mouth, your fingers, your unit, I’m not picky,” Ratchet interrupted again, waving a hand. “But I’m off the clock. Therefore, I’m not working.”

Swerve wrinkled his nose. “So yer leavin’ me to pick up the slack, huh?” He grinned lopsidedly. “And I can do whatever I want, right?”

Ratchet nodded. “Within reason.”

Swerve clucked his tongue, visor flashing in a way that imitated a wink. “Gotcha!” He crawled up on the slab, nearly tripping, his nervousness quickly turning to excitement. He opened his panels, unit springing free–-nothing Ratchet hadn’t seen before from physicals. Relatively small, but fit to scale; chubby and fat. It’d work just fine.

Swerve knelt between Ratchet’s legs. He could smell his lubricant, spark racing as his own channel started fluttering. “Gonna sample the flavor. Sure does got a nice body, heh,” he smirked. Ratchet rolled his optics, but otherwise remained still. Swerve bowed down; the edges of his fingers lingered at the bottom of Ratchet’s channel. Shyly, he leaned forward, lapping his tongue in slow, experimental strokes against the hooded anterior node.

Ratchet groaned, legs twitching. He sunk back into the pillows.

A good response. Swerve continued licking, stroking up down, up down, then swirled and pushed against. Rinse and repeat. Ratchet’s thighs quivered; lubricant caught in Swerve’s mouth, tasted delicious. The mesh walls were relaxing, anticipating.

Swerve continued pleasuring Ratchet’s node as his two fingers, no longer hesitant, hooked inside Ratchet’s channel, very gently thrusting once, twice, then scissoring; once, twice, scissor, and so on, and so forth.

Swerve was doing an excellent job so far. Ratchet was venting, his fans coming online with a whir. Swerve pushed his tongue in deeper, past folds, swirling his tongue in hard, heavy circles, the tip of his nose bobbing and pushing against the anterior node. His fingers moved right beneath his tongue, but kept to simply scissoring and splitting.

Swerve sat back a few minutes later, licking lubricant from his mouth. “That good?” he asked, fingers stopping inside Ratchet.

The medic nodded, optics closed and cheekplates hot. “Keep g-going…” he swallowed.

Swerve nodded. “I’m gonna… use my unit…” Because it was getting kind of sore now. Ratchet kept quiet, glancing once at the holographic clock to his right. He nestled back into the pillows, cracked his optics open just in time to watch Swerve get back up on his knees, line his unit up with Ratchet’s channel.

The medic gripped the pillows, bracing himself.

Swerve licked his lips again, staring at the edge of his throbbing unit just barely touching Ratchet’s ceiling node. He invented, chubby fingers taking Ratchet’s thighs. With a grunt, he thrust inside-–easy enough, with Ratchet spread open and much larger than him. But Ratchet felt it nonetheless, bucking once off the berth and gasping.

Swerve grinned. Good, good, he was doing good. Just had to keep it up. Didn’t wanna disappoint. Swerve groaned, deep and throaty, as he started pumping, hips snapping with each hard thrust. Ratchet clamped down once or twice, but not enough for Swerve to feel any sort of pain. His mesh walls were thick, moist, so soft, and Swerve was starting to drift off, overwhelmed by the pleasure. Drool trickled from his sloppy grin as he watched his entire unit push in and out of the medic, so pleased with himself.

Ratchet vented, grunted, occasionally whimpered and moaned. He clutched his pillows, grinding down into the unit. Nothing Swerve noticed, however; Ratchet wasn’t really exerting much effort. Off the clock, after all. His head fell back, tired, violet-tinged optics staring at the ceiling. Ratchet had been with smaller partners before, and while they weren’t nearly as powerful as a bigger, thicker unit, they got the job done.

Swerve’s enthusiasm and desire to please made it all the more better.

“Y-You feel r-really good, d-doc,” Swerve tittered. The obscene, wet noises of their mesh and plating slapping together, rubbing and slamming into nodes… Swerve’s visor turned to Ratchet’s unit, now fully erect. Ratchet looked like he didn’t mind it very much, but was probably expecting Swerve to do something about it. Of course.

Swerve was small enough to bow and bend forward. He brushed his lips, experimenting, against the head of Ratchet’s unit. That surprised him, but the medic continued lazing back, watching. He nodded; permission granted. Expected, even. Swerve nodded back, gulping. His pace slowed as he adjusted his throat-–Ratchet was much larger. Nothing too painfully big, but it would burn some. Just make it burn as little as possible.

Swerve wrapped his lips around Ratchet’s head. Ratchet had to admit… it was kind of cute. He started sucking on the head for a minute, visor glowing brightly. Then, inch by inch, he took more of the medic in his mouth, down his throat, past semi-tight intakes. Swerve nearly gagged, pulled back; relaxed, and dove down again. He started sucking, tongue rolling and licking the underside of the unit. When his throat began clenching up, Swerve changed positions so the cord was now pressing and grinding into his cheeks.

Ratchet’s lips twitched. Swerve’s warm mouth, his desperation to please–-Ratchet invented, plating rattling. Swerve started moving the unit in and out of his mouth in tandem with his unit. Loud slurping noises as he trailed up and down the length of the cord with viscous lines of coolant. Swerve whimpered, feeling his own overload steadily approaching.

Ratchet reached out a hand, placed it on top of Swerve’s head. While he didn’t necessarily guide him, he lowered him and kept Swerve there so he could take his whole unit without pulling back more than a few inches. “Y-You’re good at t-this,” the medic snorted.

Swerve assumed that was a compliment. He was going to give a thumb’s up, but then Ratchet unceremoniously overloaded.

Swerve’s yelp was muffled as transfluid suddenly poured down his throat. Ratchet ground his teeth, channel overload soaking both Swerve’s unit and the berth beneath them. Swerve swallowed at least two, three mouthfuls of the fluids until Ratchet finally removed his hand and let Swerve sit up. Swerve vented, mouth open, tongue rolling the last gobs of transfluid around in his mouth. Some spilled from his bottom lip, just enough for droplets to fall on Ratchet’s groin.

“Not bad,” Ratchet sighed, “not bad at all.”

“H-Heh, yeah…” Swerve wiped off his face, shivering. “So I’ve b-been told.”

“You haven’t overloaded yet, have you?”

Swerve laughed weakly. “S-Scans didn’t tell you that?”

Ratchet huffed. “All right,” he said, swishing a hand. “Sit back. Spread your legs.”

Swerve didn’t know where this was going, but he hoped it would lead to an overload. He needed one so badly. He did as he was told, leaning back on his hands, quivering legs open to expose his leaking channel and soaked unit. Ratchet eyed him a moment; he remained absolutely still, only raising one foot and placing it against Swerve’s interface array. Swerve gasped, confused, but then the boot started rubbing, stroking, and Swerve completely understood.

“Ah… y-yes…” Swerve chewed his bottom lip, trying not to melt into the slab. He bucked his hips into the foot, its edge teasing his channel folds, sliding up his unit to rub its head against his abdomen. “I–I thought you said… n-no work…”

“This?” Ratchet snorted, wiping transfluid from his groin. “This is nothing.”

Swerve wasn’t sure if he should feel offended about that, either. No time to think. Swerve’s CPU was spinning, mouth agape and venting. It didn’t take long for him to finally climax; Ratchet slammed the heel of his boot against his unit, and Swerve overloaded with a loud cry, transfluid splattering across his chest, along the berth. Even a little on Ratchet’s boot.

“Consider this payback for the drink,” Ratchet snorted.

Swerve swayed, close to falling off the slab. “Ssss'f-free…”

Ratchet opened a drawer beside the bed, removing two rags and a bottle of cleanser. He tossed them to Swerve, who almost dropped them-–one of the rags did hit him in the face, however. “Clean this mess up,” the medic ordered, softened a little, “if you don’t mind.”

“Heh,” Swerve smirked, squirting solvent into a rag. He shuffled forward, swiping it down between Ratchet’s legs. “Somethin’ I’m really good at.”

“Careful,” Ratchet scowled, “you keep touching me like that, I’m liable to build up another charge.”

Swerve nodded, grinning widely. It was a good thing he had butterfingers.


End file.
